


Offer and Rejection

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Integrated Worlds [7]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: (kinda), Gen, Implied Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Swords, i like swords, implied human trafficking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 03:30:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15110876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: Jack Noir makes a sale to a guy hereallydoesn't like.





	Offer and Rejection

The older one's a shithead, that much is pretty damn obvious by the payment methods he offers you. Like you don't make it explicitly clear that the (highly illegal) weaponry you deal in is only on offer for those who have enough Earth currency or Alternian caegars to pay. 

"Other weapons" _might_ be an acceptable form of payment, if you like the client and if what they're offering is unusual enough. Strider can qualify for the latter, but there's no way in hell he can manage the former. 

Besides, so far he's offered you drugs and (half-jokingly) sex, neither of which you're interested in. Especially since you feel like the sex would almost certainly be with the _younger_ Strider, a skinny teenager who's obviously picked up his guardian's habit of never taking off his shades. Makes for one hell of a poker face, on both of them. Or it would, if the kid knew how to control his body language. 

Which he doesn't. 

Strider picks up one of the blades you've brought—cherub make, long and slim and surprisingly flexible for something that's as unbreakable as the star-forged metal is—and makes a face when his hand doesn't close around the grip properly. Hey, that's a consequence of using a weapon made for a species with a different number of fingers than plain old humans. 

"This sword fuckin' _sucks,_ Noir," he drawls, setting it back on the cloth and picking up a shorter dagger with a deep fuchsia shimmer to the metal. "I'm startin' to think ya brought me trash this time." 

You're perfectly aware that the irritating Texas drawl is in his voice _because_ it's irritating to you. Like you already said, Strider's a shithead. 

"You asked for exotic." You shrug, adjusting the cherub-forged blade carefully. Damn thing's one of your prize specimens; if it was half the length you'd give it a fast track to your private collection. "I delivered." 

"Sure ya did." Strider tilts his head, then sets the fuchsia knife down and looks over his shoulder. "C'mere, lil' man. Pick me out the best one." 

The kid shrugs. His expression doesn't shift from _neutrally bored_ , but to someone as experienced as you it's hard to miss how his shoulders tense up as he hops off the back of the couch, how every step looks like he's forcing himself to take it. 

Damn. You wonder how many battle scars he's got hidden under that red-sleeved shirt. Not a lot of other reasons for him to hate blades as much as he obviously does. 

"Pick me out a good one, Davey," Strider says, and ruffles the kid's bone-white hair in a movement that's so obviously for your benefit that it's almost laughable. Kid tenses up at that, too; the movement's slight, almost unnoticeable, and probably automatic. 

_Damn._

"Katana length, right?" the kid asks, trailing his fingers across a blade you picked up from a cobaltblood troll who said he'd scored it on one of the occasional deserted worlds that exploration ships run across. You can't even put a species name to it; how's that for one of a kind?

"I ever ask for anything else? Shit, lil' man, don't be a fuckin' dumbass, how many times do I gotta tell you?" If you can detect the bite of anger in Strider's voice, the kid must hear it too. Oddly, that doesn't trigger the telltale flinch you keep seeing. 

Maybe you're just reading things wrong. 

"Calm the fuck down, Bro." It's a mumble, as he picks up another one of your Alternian-made weapons—this one wasn't meant for royalty, doesn't have the violet or magenta sheen that the most conventionally valuable pieces do, but you're still partial to it. The thing has a beauty beyond the beauty of that which is meant to kill, after all; roughly arm's-length, a handspan wide where the base of the blade meets the grip but tapering rapidly for the first quarter of the blade, where it gets down to two inches or so and stays that width until it hits the angled tip. The metal itself is more lightweight than should be normal, shifting from crimson to indigo depending on the angle. 

The kid weighs it in his hand, tilting it back and forth to see the colors change. You don't blame him for the unguarded amazement on his face; the blade's _stunning._

Then Strider takes it out of his hand, and you see the kid's shoulders slump as he glances up at you. This close, you realize that the shades are dark but not mirrored; you can get a glimpse of red eyes behind the veil. When he doesn't immediately look away but stares back at you stubbornly, you take the opportunity to look him over. 

You're not sure what you see. Whatever it is, it makes you edgy, almost enough to tell Strider to screw himself, find a different dealer. 

Instead, you look up at Strider, and nod at the sword. "That one's psionic-forged." True. "Those freaks who power the grey assholes' ships, they can use their powers to shape metal too. Makes one hell of a blade, doesn't dull and is the closest thing to unbreakable." Also true. "I've had that one for somewhere around eight years." Still true. 

Time for a quick detour into _outright lie_ country, though. 

"The guy who sold me that one, he told me psi-blades form some kind'a bond with the people who own them for awhile. Longer it's owned by one person, the stronger the mental link gets." 

Strider scoffs, balancing the blade on his palms to check the balance even though the kid _just_ did that. "Ya tellin' me the goddamn sword _thinks_?" 

"I'm just repeating what I've been told." Sure you are. You're not making up a story out of whole cloth. Not at all. "Just wanted to warn you that I've heard about swords like that calling previous owners back, if they think they're getting used in an unfair fight. And me, I _hate_ unfair fights. Might have to come back and intervene." 

Strider just huffs, and turns away to check how the blade looks under the lamp. When he does, you wink at the kid. 

You get a small smile back. Of course he knows you're talking out your ass, but he seems to appreciate it. 

"Take this and put it away, lil' man." Strider finishes his examination, and tosses the sword to the kid. You almost cringe—that's not how you treat a good blade, or a _sharp_ one, and that's as sharp as they come—but the kid catches it with the kind of ease born of long practice, and slips out of the room. 

Strider turns back to you. "So," he says, giving you a lazy grin that shows both teeth and absolutely no camaraderie, "what do I owe you?" 

You have a price in mind. Half again as much as you would charge anyone else, because this guy _is_ a shithead. 

But instead of the number, what comes out of your mouth is, "Trade you that blade and two more of your choice for the kid." 

That seems to take him by surprise. (It sure as hell takes _you_ by surprise.) But he considers it, for a long moment, before shrugging. "What, Davey?" 

"Yeah." He's the only kid here; who the hell else would you be talking about? 

"Seems a lil' high for a night with him. Not that I'm complaining." 

You barely keep your disgust off your face as you get it through your head what he's implying. "You whore out your kid, then?" 

"Nah." Strider shakes his head, amused rather than offended at the question. You don't think he's lying, though, and you're pretty good at sensing that kind of thing. "But three of your blades? That'd be what, a quarter of a million?" 

You just shrug. He's definitely understating the number. 

"A quarter mil, and that's _lowballing_ it." A quick, sharp grin. "For that kinda money I'd let you do whatever the fuck you wanted to the lil' man." 

_Shithead._ "Wasn't what I was thinking of, anyway." 

"So what were you thinking of?" 

You're beginning to wonder that yourself. "Buying him outright. You know there's places you can buy underage trolls, if you know where to ask." 

"Oh, careful, Jack." He tilts his head enough that you see a flash of amber under the triangular shades. "First off, those kids are meant to be adopted. They _are_ adopted, even if rich idiots pay for the privilege. Not like you can fuck with a troll kid. Not without having fuck knows how many adults out for your goddamn blood." 

The implication here is that you'd fuck with _this_ kid. You let it pass. "Not like I want a troll kid." 

"Nah, you want _that_ cute piece of ass, don't you?" Strider chuckles and shakes his head, nodding at the weapons you still have laid out on the black velvet cloth on his kitchen table. "You don't got enough hardware here to pay for him, Noir. Hell, I bet you don't got enough, period. The kid's my blood; makes him valuable as fuck to me." 

You almost try and make him another offer. Something in you tells you that you ought to take the kid out of this place with you. 

But you don't know why. 

And you're not a goddamn hero, not some knight in shining armor who scoops kids out of any sketchy situation they might be in. You're just one high-end sword dealer who doesn't do all that much harm to anyone, and shiny good deeds ain't your style. 

You tell Strider the price. 

He pays it. 

You pack up and leave the apartment. 

That's it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Don't Threaten Me With A Good Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15387333) by [Corvid_Knight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight)




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